I heard myself say the other day: “I love England. I don’t love living in England, but I love England.”
Sometimes when you open your mouth and speak without thinking, truth pops out. I’ll leave you with that bit of personal ambiguity and my annual photo spread of something about which I feel no equivocation — the gorgeous roses that bloom in our garden. When I turn the corner to walk to my house, the scent of these roses hit me before I can even see the front door. Some brave blooms show up as late (or as early) as New Years Day, but most reach their fulsome loveliest now, in June.
Want more roses? See my post from two years ago, Jubilee and Roses, or look up the roses tag. I’m still a rose-moron — I have no idea the names or types of these roses which bring my life so much beauty. Yet in these few years I find my idea of what is required in a garden has changed. There must be roses. There must always be roses.